


Safe House

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM role play, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Kink, fake abuse, fake non-consensual, imaginary dom/sub, role-play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 23:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13845378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: There are varying degrees of sexual play, and different levels of seriousness in BDSM, pain-play, master-slave, dom-sub. This is about a very, very mild version, in which the threat is clearly pretended, not intended.It happens when Mycroft and Lestrade are in hiding, avoiding Eurus' people and powers. It's a low afternoon, and a stressful week locked up with Sherlock and John...and Mycroft goes to seek a private, very private release, only to be found out.Hope you enjoy it. It is what it is--and I'm not quite sure what it is, in a world where all our fantasies seem to be taken terribly seriously but not terribly compassionately.





	Safe House

It’s a private thing that Mycroft does, sometimes. Personal. Shameful, at least to him. Embarrassing—even humiliating. Something he has never shared with anyone, not even his counselors from MI6. It’s none of their business. It’s harmless, after all, and if he understands his intelligence data correctly, most people do it—or something like it. Each to his own kinks. But sometimes the longing presses against him—when stress mounts too high, when his body goes rogue on him, when the chatter in his mind presses in on him. That’s when he retreats to his bedroom, or the nearest available alternative, and goes that step or two beyond simple wanking.

Wanking he’ll admit to. Everyone wanks, and if they don’t that’s much weirder than anything Mycroft does alone in his bedroom with the door shut and the window blinds closed tight and the curtains pulled and the room as dark as he can make it.

He’ll shower, after. Often he’ll shower before—the heat and steam, the scent of the shampoo and bath gel, the scrape of the razor, the perfume of his own aftershave, all join together in a wordless litany of need and focus.

Tonight he’s retired secretly to the guest suite in the barn at the back of his parents' property. He's stripped himself naked, already running the fantasy script in his head as his captor denies him even a sliver of modesty, shaming him, gloating over his fast-rising cock. He slips his things out of the case he brought with him from home—an old leather ditty-bag that, unopened, might contain any man’s toiletries. First he gets out the lube—that’s innocuous. Again, everyone wanks, and he doesn’t feel too strange having lube on hand. But then there are the loops of supple, satiny rope, tied so that hands and feet can hook into them—and pull out of them—easily and safely.

He may be a pervert, but he doesn’t want to accidentally trap himself on his bed. These are safe, supplying only the superficial sensation of bondage. That sensation, though…

He shivers, thinking about it. Shivers tying the foot-loops to the S-hooks he’s fastened to the bedframe. Shivers slipping his feet into the loops. He sets up the wrist-loops, too, but goes no further. They can wait. There’s more to do.

Then there’s the vibrator, found after careful, methodical hunting over the internet. It’s intended for a woman, but he’s found it perfect for his own needs—or nearly perfect. It would be wonderful if it were thicker in the shaft, but the odd contraption, shaped like a crab’s claw, hits inside and out, pressing against his prostate within, and providing counter-pressure against his perineum outside. It’s got a motor like a jackhammer. He loves it. He lubes it up and slides it into himself, positioning it carefully and setting it off by memorized touch, insides curdling with joy as the shuddering begins. He always puts it in hard and fast, with just a little too little lube—the sudden thrust and pain makes up for the thicker shaft it lacks, or almost makes up for it. He feels stretched, the pain close enough to evoke what he would really desire.

Then he twists, clipping the long length of towel in place over his hips, secured at either side of the mattress. He slips the pre-tied gag into his mouth. He lies down and slips his hands through the wrist-loops, giving the twist and grip that makes him feel as though he were trapped, captured, tied helpless.

He closes his eyes, hips already rolling as he rubs his cock against the toweling, rutting like a teenager rubbing one off against his first lover’s thigh.  In his head the movie is already running—the fictional captor, teasing him, playing with him.

Sometimes he lets a hand slip out of his false bondage, so he can pinch his nipples or squeeze his balls, giving extra conviction to his fantasy of being captured and ravished.

He would never want this in real life. To be taken by an enemy and sexually abused? He’s no fool—the thought of real captivity terrifies him, perhaps more because fantasy capture has such a hidden allure. But, then, that’s the point—it’s fantasy. He’s never even found one lover he could trust enough to whisper this secret longing to. Who could he trust—to treat him well, to understand it’s HIS fantasy, to not shame him, and to never, never, never give away the secret? Sometimes he thinks it would be nice to have a lover he could share this with. He’d even attempt to provide similar fantasy-fulfillment in return, to have someone he trusted and desired who would tie him with his safe, sexy, silky cords, tease him, master him, use him…the ways he wants to be used, and no other ways.

He trusts no one that much.

He can’t imagine the process by which he would even open the subject up to a lover.

Instead he has his bedroom, when things are stressful, and the world is too much with him, or his body too rebellious.

And so it is tonight, though part of him is screaming that now, if ever, is the time to abstain. He and Sherlock and John Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade are all hiding together at Mummy and Father’s cottage, avoiding Eurus, who seems to have deleted all knowledge of the house her family moved to after she killed Victor. It may be the only safe place in the nation, right now, because it is the one place Eurus in her madness and her loneliness and despair can’t allow herself to admit exists.  So Mycroft’s superiors have gathered the most vulnerable in and dumped them safe and secure, under Lestrade’s benign watch, and they’ve been blundering and blasting at each other for days, helpless to leave until they are no longer targets.

The entire situation has been weighing on Mycroft. His parents are out of the country—thank God. Another of their trips, this time to study the birds of New Zealand. But that’s still left Mycroft trapped in enemy territory—family territory—with the three men who most scramble his brains, trigger his emotions, and leave him shattered in heart and soul and mind. Sherlock who loves him and hates him and who’s always a mere blink away from becoming another Eurus. John Watson, who quite dislikes him and won’t admit it, any more than he will admit he’s got homophilic tendencies where Sherlock is concerned, if nowhere else.

And Lestrade, who gives him erections simply by turning and smiling at him. An unfair tactic and one the detective has used for years, turning his younger ally in espionage’s blood molten when there’s simply nothing to be done about it. First the damned man was married, and then—he wasn’t. But he also wasn’t interested, and Mycroft, of all the people in the world, has no idea how to proceed sexually when it comes to someone so indifferent, whom he wants so painfully much.

Today it became too much. Having already announced that he was going to retreat from the group, he found himself thinking longingly of how good—how very good—it would feel to have a good wank. And, having thought of it, he thought of how glad he was that his little “foible” packed so easily and so instantly into his bag. And how glad he was he had it with him. Thinking that, he instantly decided he didn’t want to retreat to his bedroom, which was and had always been too easy for his family to surveil, but instead that he would go to the guest suite, where he had often fled as a boy—sometimes just to read books out of reach of Mummy’s brass-trumpet voice calling him to come help with Sherlock, other times specifically for the early manifestations of his private quirk. You could do things there that you could not risk mere feet away from Mummy and Father and Sherlock.

So he’d cut across the fields, the worn leather of his ditty-bag smooth and supple in his hand, already promising release.

His eyes were closed tight, to block out the little light that shone in through the edges of the windows and the frame of the door. His mind built a wall, blocking out sounds from beyond—the tractor in the field edging the property, the starlings twittering on the bare earth turned up by the tractor, the barking of dogs on the nearby farms….

In his mind he was otherwise occupied. His heart beat, quicker and quicker, and he flexed to set the silken cord harder against the skin and bone of wrists and ankles. He had been kidnapped, bound and drugged, stripped naked on a bed in a place he could not even guess. His enemy was in control. A fleeting regret flickered in his mind—if only he didn’t need to keep his thighs closed to ensure the vibrator remained firmly in place. He would have liked to imagine himself spread wide, helpless to close his legs, his entire crotch open to his enemy’s hands. As it was, he made do. He knew his enemy lay on him, pressing him into the mattress, hands exploring, voice murmuring mocking, gloating things, noting with malicious amusement how easily Mycroft was aroused, how helpless he was to resist—

A slut, he thought to himself, feeding on his own reaction to the vibrator’s rumble. God, God, it was good. He was hard—so hard. He rocked against the strip of towel, the nubby fabric just a bit slick from pre-cum, just a bit rough, the friction easily imagined as the rough caress of a conquering captor. It was glorious—he was a slut, gagging for it, ready to be his enemy’s bitch if the man would only, only, please, let him come…

It was a good fantasy. One he could stop in moments, but which instead he fed and encouraged, pouring every erotic sensation into the narrative, imaging his own fear and desire as the other man’s body pinned him down and took what he liked. He was so deep in his fantasy he failed to hear the door close below, or the steps approaching up the stairway. He noticed nothing until the door swung wide, with a rush of cold air, and Lestrade’s voice boomed, “Fuck!  Hang on, Mycroft—Here. Let me…”

ooOOOoo

Mycroft’s eyes popped wide as Lestrade hurtled across the room, landing on the bed, tugging the knot of the gag from Mycroft’s mouth, reaching for the silky cord that tied one wrist, voice a stream of questions and reassurances right up until it finally penetrated his mind that the rope was far too loose and poorly tied to serve as a real bond. In a mid-comment about alerting the hunting team that Eurus had penetrated their defenses, he ran out of words. He looked down into Mycroft’s face, stricken, hands still groping for the cord, fingers still, though, as he recognized the man under him had been captive of no one but himself and his own desires.

“Oh.”

Mycroft was beyond embarrassed. His body had spasmed briefly, only to find that Lestrade combined with the token bonds slowed him, leaving him unable to even roll away or hide himself under a blanket. His cock, hard as stone mere seconds before, wilted, caught between him and Lestrade—an enviable position he might have said under other circumstances. Now all he seems able to do is lie where he is, watching understanding slowly seep into Lestrade’s expression.

The man blushed, red as beets, his tawny skin burning with the sudden revelation.

“Oh…” He swallowed, hard, then let go of Mycroft’s wrist. “Sorry…sorry-sorry-sorry.” He rose, stumbling, to his feet, horror in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Mycroft, I thought…” He stopped, then, and shrugged. “Sorry…” He backed toward the door, as though he dared not look away—as though Mycroft were some kind of terrifying Weeping Angel who’d be on him and tear him out of his own life if he turned his back on him. He groped, found the door frame, edged onto the landing outside—and slammed the door shut between them.

Mycroft felt the slam like a bomb going off in his chest. He was drowned in his own sense of how bad this was—how ugly he was, how filthy his secret desire, how shamed he was. Lestrade would never look at him with respect again, and God knows what he’d leak—to Sherlock, to John, to other members of MI5 and MI6. He’d be a laughingstock. A scandal with a punch-line. A sexual creep—a perv, a sicko. Loveless and unlovable.

It was supposed to be _private. SECRET._ A solitary pleasure he need not explain or justify.

Goodbye to that, he thought, suddenly weary and lost. He doubted he’d ever be able to even look at his little, precious kit of toys again.

He twisted his wrists and sat up, unhooking one side of the towel and leaning over to remove the vibrator, turning it off automatically.

There was a tap at the door, then, and Lestrade cracked it open, peeking in warily. “Mike?”

In reflexive despair, Mycroft hurled the vibrator, amazed when Lestrade caught it, equally reflexively.

“Bloody hell.” Mycroft could hear the despair in his own voice. “Bloody buggering hell.”

Lestrade slid into the room with a silent ooze, as though he were a cautious slug easing over a thorny rose bush. “Um, yeah, sorry about that.” He stepped in just close enough to hold out the crab-claw vibrator, holding it gingerly from fingers already glistening with lube. “I…think that’s yours?”

Mycroft snatched it away, shoved it under the pillow, and dropped his head. “Yes. Thank you.” He couldn’t think what else to say. Shouting “Go away” seemed a bit late—like hitting the brakes after you’d slammed into the stone wall instead of before.

He couldn’t see Lestrade’s face when the other man said, hesitantly, “Wouldn’t that be more fun with someone else to help?” He had to glance up, even as his mind analyzed the tone of Lestrade’s voice, the inflection of each word. When he did meet the other man’s eyes all he saw was remorse and some sort of curiosity.

He grimaced, and tried to gather some vestige of dignity around him. “It’s hardly the sort of thing you’d do with anyone you didn’t trust implicitly.”

Lestrade considered that, then said, “Well. Yes. But neither’s hiding out from Eurus, when you think about it.”

“There are differing levels of trust and of intimacy,” Mycroft snapped. “I trust Sherlock implicitly in this situation, and John only somewhat less—and yet I would hardly invite either of them into my bed.”

“Incest concerns?”

Mycroft shrugged. “My family doesn’t inspire me to get my…dangly bits…in range of their teeth and claws, frankly. And John doesn’t like me in the first place. Not to mention he’s—“

“Not gay,” Lestrade said, coming in with perfect timing as Mycroft said the words.

The timing made them both laugh, as did the questionable precision of John’s constant claim. Lestrade smiled. “I notice I’m not on the list of those only fit to hide out with.” There was something about his voice, as though it presaged some change in the weather. Portents of storm…the distant rumble of thunder in the hills above a river valley. He locked his gaze with Mycroft’s, demanding eye contact.

Mycroft swallowed and blinked, nervously, and made himself look away. “You hardly stop clocks or break mirrors. And…yes. You’re quite trustworthy.” He was aware of Lestrade’s lube-damp fingers rubbing together, as though he could feel the vibrator still. “It’s not something I’ve ever considered open to explanation,” he said, realizing as he did so that he was opening the door to being asked to try explaining anyway.

He was, he knew, being studied by dark eyes—considered. Fingers rubbing together tested his texture, felt his desire, judged his appeal…

“It’s not something I’d ever want to go through in reality,” he said, defensively. “I’ve been captured. I’ve been tortured. Adding sex in wouldn’t make it even a jot better. Worse. It would be worse. It’s not about hating myself enough to want to be raped.”

“No.” It wasn’t a question, but an almost cheerful agreement. “It’s the thrill of the game. The story. The characters. Who’s your captor?”

Mycroft heard the other man step closer, his feet shuffling on the smooth floorboards. He risked a shivery breath as he tried to sort out his own feelings—his response.

Lestrade had found him, clearly jacking off to a quiet, kinky little bondage fantasy…and as embarrassed as they’d both been, he’d come back.

He wasn’t horrified. Or creepy.

Mycroft licked his lips, suddenly alive with nerves and uncertainty. “He’s…no one specific, today. ‘My Enemy.’”

“And…?”

“He’s captured me, and he’s going to…play with me.”

“Cat and mouse?”

“Somewhat. It’s a fantasy, but…we both know where it’s going. I’m captured, bound, drugged with the most remarkable drugs….”

“Date-rape only better?”

“Oh, yes…”

Lestrade gave a warm little chuckle. “Yes. If you’re going to have a fantasy you want to be sure to set it up so you’re horny and blameless at the same time.”

Mycroft risked glancing up, and was pinned in time, as he met merry brown eyes. It was long seconds before he could say, in a shaky voice, “Yes. Precisely.”

“And this enemy? He’s…cruel?”

Mycroft shrugged. “More—clever and gloating. He….” He swallowed, hard. “He knows I want it…” He looked away, certain his face would put a lobster to shame.

“Ah, that kind of enemy.” Lestrade sat cautiously on the edge of the bed. “Taunts you with it?”

Mycroft nodded, still not looking at the other man.

“And—does he make you beg?” Lestrade’s voice had gone deep, with a husky, smoky rumble.

“Yes…” Mycroft’s voice was as husky, but small, and soft, his fear and his desire both shy before this witness.

“And he’s in control…” It was almost a question. Not quite, but—a question mark would not have been inappropriate.

“Yes.”

“Look at me, Mike.”

Mycroft dared meet Lestrade’s eyes again. He shivered, seeing desire gaze back at him. “I….”

“Mmmmm? Interested in playing let’s pretend? I’ll try to be a _good_ enemy….” The tones were both hopeful and salacious—a filthy, cheerful promise in every word.

Mycroft’s heart was thundering. “I’ve never… I’ve always… It’s something private. Something I do alone.”

“You more or less said—and you mostly didn’t need to say. It’s pretty obvious to anyone who knows you.”

Mycroft gave a quick nod, and said, somewhat bitterly, “Yes. I’m hardly the sort to have an exciting sex life, am I?”

“No,” Lestrade said, patiently, “You’re not the sort to have a careless, reckless sex life. There’s a difference.” He put a hand square in the middle of Mycroft’s chest, and pushed firmly, though not firmly enough to force Mycroft to lie down. “Interested?” he said again.

Mycroft, terrified but longing, let himself be pushed back, until he lay flat again. He took a moment to shove the pillow in a roll under his neck. “I…think I’ll leave the gag out of the fantasy this time.” He felt beyond bold saying it…but he could not see how they’d survive this if he had no words.

“Smart move,” Lestrade said, adding a sexy growl to the comment. “You’ll want to use your mouth when I make you beg.” He cocked his head like a London sparrow considering a tempting crumb of shawarma. “You want me to call you names, talk dirty?”

Mycroft barely managed to nod—a tiny, terrified nod. “Mmm.”

“Pain?”

“Minor. No more than a bit.”

Lestrade nodded, then reached past Mycroft, catching his free wrists. He slipped both together through a single loop—a loop still big enough to escape easily. He tucked the cord into Mycroft’s palms. “You’re helpless,” he said, firmly, eyes twinkling.

Mycroft nodded.

“I’m your enemy.” Lestrade leaned down, then, hand tracing Mycroft’s lips. His voice seemed darker, dusky with power and desire both. “I’m going to show you what a little slut you really are…sweetheart. You’re made for it….” He drifted his hand down Mycroft’s front, bracing himself on Mycroft’s sternum as he leaned in and stole a kiss uninvited. “You’re mine, now, pet.” He drew back and held Mycroft’s gaze. “Say it, Mike. You’re mine…”

Mycroft risked playing the role, not the narrator. “No…” he whined. “No, please…” But he made no effort to slip the bonds around his wrists, or to escape the hand that began a slow creep down his torso toward his cock and balls.

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed. “Swear by your brother if you want me to stop, my little man,” he whispered, then, one step outside his role, said a bit more seriously, “’Sherlock.’ Take that as your safe word today.”

Mycroft nodded assent. “Yes. I’ll swear by my brother…” Then, stepping outside the role himself, husked, “And for God’s sake, lock the door. The last thing we need is Sherlock bursting in here, too…”

Lestrade chuckled, rose, and locked the door, returning with a steady pace. He climbed onto the bed and set a knee between Mycroft’s, then forced his thighs open, pushing them out like wings from Mycroft’s body. He positioned himself carefully, knees preventing Mycroft from lowering his thighs, and carefully twined shins pinning Mycroft’s calves down on the mattress—a position that held him helplessly open, while placing almost no weight on his limbs or joints. He pushed aside the towel strip, and contemplated Mycroft’s crotch, and the cock that already rose in hungry desire. “What a hot little tart you are, darlin’ Mikey.” He palmed Mycroft, hand both gentle and rough, like a lion playing with cubs. “Wake up, little man. You’re mine, now.” He gripped the rising flesh firmly, and squeeze passively, his thumb caressing the tender knob, drawing down along the slit. “That’s it, soldier—stand tall before I take you down.”

Mycroft’s hips ratchetted helplessly up, trying to fuck Lestrade’s fist—an impossibility without Lestrade’s help. Instead the other man gave a chuckle Mycroft could only classify as filthy, and let his hand ride the wave, providing no friction at all.

“You want it, don’t you?” When Mycroft whined but failed to answer, he gripped tighter, and thumbed his slit again. “Say it, bitch. You’re war booty—so behave like good booty should.”

Mycroft closed his eyes, then, focusing on the feelings, the fantasy, working to integrate his own old, old habits and the novelty of Lestrade’s participation. It was both easy and difficult. The very thrill and vulnerability he felt in Lestrade’s presence—in his very grip—shattered the fantasy focus, challenging habit, forcing Mycroft to cope with a new player he did not control. He thought he found a way…

“I want it,” he gasped, “I want it. Touch me. Take me…” Surely that would be more straightforward, less…well, less character driven! Body and body, not personalities...

Another filthy chuckle, and hands stroked his inner thighs, from the hinge out toward the knees, palms tender but, again, possessive. Then Lestrade stretched out on top of Mycroft like a giant cat sprawling on a sleeping human slave. He seemed to wallow in the pleasure of ownership. He purred a breathy note in Mycroft’s ear, then began a slow exploration—tongue and lips and teeth nibbling his new toy, marking him, testing responses. His hands crept up Mycroft’s chest until he found his nipples. Nails scraped, then, and finger tips pinched and twisted, and Mycroft squirmed, moaning, only to have Greg slide a thigh up to Mycroft’s crotch and add still more sensation to the heady mix. Mycroft began to close down, only to feel fingers tighten, thigh press closer, with his new owner growling in his ear, “Show me you want it, boy. Your cock’s in charge, now, not that big brain. Do what your cock tells you.”

Mycroft shuddered, humped up, groaned. His fingers knit around the ropes holding him secure, and he felt the pressure of the ropes, the pull and tension down his arms, into his shoulders, down his flanks. He let himself be the part—he whimpered, and let his cock command his choices. He struggled for friction. Greg laughed, low and dirty, and rucked his thigh over Mycroft’s cock.

“That’s it, that’s right. Your cock wants you to get fucked, pet. Your cock will make you beg for it, before I’m done with you.” Mycroft felt one hand leave his chest, slide up over his shoulder, and return. For a moment everything went still. Then Lestrade sat up, forcing a wail of hunger from Mycroft as he lost the contact he’d had.

“Shut up, sweetheart. I’m not done with you, yet. Just playing with the toy chest a bit…”

There was the splurt and stutter of lube coming out of the tube, and then Greg had rocked back, squatting between Mycroft’s legs. He prodded Mycroft’s arsehole with a damn, lube-chill finger—then prodded again with something thicker and duller.

“Fast or slow. Hard or soft. Do you want me to open you up, or just push in with this?”

Mycroft’s mind scrambled, and he realized the poor, discarded vibrator was back in play.

“Fast, and hard,” he managed to say, then gave a wail of pleasure-pain as Lestrade followed his choice with prompt action. The thing was in, providing that precious painful, stretched, invaded feeling. Then he was tooling through the speeds and patterns, until he found a hard, erratic, rough one that felt to Mycroft like being ravished by a drunk jazzman, the tempo never quite settling down. Then Lestrade was lying on him again, the fly of his trousers grinding over Mycroft’s chubbed-out rod, his fingers once again on his nipples, his teeth nipping at Mycroft’s lips.

“Kiss me, sweetheart. Open up and give me that sweet mouth…”

Mycroft opened on a moan that was immediately muffled as Lestrade invaded his mouth.

It was unlike anything Mycroft had ever experienced in his memory. He was overwhelmed with sensations—the pounding beat of the vibrator, the stropping rut against his pecker, the pinching, wicked fingers teasing his nipples with arousal and pain in one action, the fierce attack of Greg’s mouth, his tongue sweeping in and demanding response. He started to freeze up, only to have one hand leave his nipples, slide up to the nape of his neck, and pinch tight, fingers tugging Mycroft’s short-cropped hair. The sudden action raised another wail, and Lestrade freed his own mouth long enough to growl delight. “That’s it. Scream for me. Show me what you want, pet. Show me what you like.”

Mycroft wasn’t in good shape to communicate that. He wasn’t even in good shape to figure out what he liked for himself—it was a wall of sensation, a vast wave of desire. “Uhng.” He squirmed. “Yours. I’m yours. Take…take me.”

Lestrade grunted. “All in good time, my pretty slut. When I do—condom or no condom? I won’t give you anything. Been tested recently, done nothing since.”

Mycroft felt the idea explode in him: Lestrade could safely take him in a second, on impulse, both of them free of any diseases that could or should slow them down. “No condom, then,” he managed. “Take me when you choose. How you choose. Make me…”

Lestrade huffed his own desire, and returned to his torment of his helpless captive. “You’re weeping for it. Tart. Cock-slut. Are you gagging for it?”

“Nnng. Yes. Yes—I’m gagging for it,” Mycroft moaned, the silly cliché of the words washed away by the excitement of being Greg’s slut—being Greg’s booty. “I’m yours.”

Lestrade rose again, the fabric of his clothes brushing over Mycroft’s naked skin, and for the first time it dawned on Mycroft that his lover hadn’t undressed since coming into the room. He was in jeans, and a shawl-necked army jumper, with the curved crew neck of a common t-shirt underneath. He was even still in his shoes and socks. He climbed out of the valley between Mycroft’s thighs, and knelt at his side, one hand cradling and teasing Mycroft’s balls, the other cradling his cheek and plunging a thick, strong thumb into his mouth, in and out, promising more fucking to come. His eyes enhanced Mycroft’s nakedness, underlining the vision of his pet spread out on the bed, bound hand and foot, vibrator up his bum, writhing under his lover’s gaze, squirming at his touch.

“Who owns you, pet?”

Mycroft mouthed the thumb plundering his lips, then managed to say around it, “You.”

“That’s right, sweetness. Hot and horny. God. Look at you—you’re coming apart.”

He was indeed coming apart. His hips had a mind of their own; his cock hunted for any touch, rooting into the air as Lestrade tugged his balls. His asshole pulsed with the vibrator, clutching, with only that faint wish resurfacing that, if only—if only it were a bit thicker, drove in instead of just shuddering in place—if only it were Lestrade’s cock, riding him. He suddenly wished he could see Lestrade’s cock, hidden behind the denim of his jeans.

“You. Want you…” He couldn’t manage more clarity, even if his mouth hadn’t been occupied territory, taken over by that thumb—a thumb now stroking the velvet of his lips, roughing surface lightly, with the same firm touch he’d applied to Mycroft’s nipples. Suddenly desperate for something more—better, more intimate—Mycroft wrenched his head back, twisted his face away, and growled, “I want you. Not just your damned thumb….” It wasn’t part of the fantasy—or never had been before this. Now—a very small portion of his mind soothed him, muttering that it was all part of being a good little cock-slut. If he were supposed to be gagging for it, after all…

Lestrade chuckled, panting as Mycroft arched his neck, head as high as he could manage. “Don’t glare. Pushy. Pushy little bitch. Here—let’s try this. He reached down, suddenly, and heaved, and rolled Mycroft, spinning him in his bondage, the ropes twisting a half-turn. His arms were stretched a bit tighter, his legs closed just a fraction—but now he could kneel in response to Lestrade’s tugs, arse in the air, head hanging heavy, the weight of his upper body on his elbows.

Mouth and arse vulnerable and beyond protection. Unless, of course, he slipped his bonds, as he could so easily. He shivered as Lestrade stroked his head, tugged his hair, caressed the line of his spine, found his bum. His fingers curved around the lower edge of a globe, then spidered into his crack, exploring the vibrator clutched between his cheeks—a clutch made necessary by the lube and the tight ring of muscles and the heavy shudder of the jackhammer motor. One pad trailed around the tight rim of his rectum, and the firm touch drove Mycroft crazy.

This. This is what he’d only managed to suggest in his pitiful little fantasy, alone with his toys. The feeling of being helpless in the hands of need. Of desiring a lover powerful enough—self-willed enough—to go where he was not specifically invited, to initiate actions Mycroft had never imagined for himself. To trap his lover in surprise and helpless desire.

His arse, like his hips, had become self-willed. He pushed back against the probing finger, creaking out needing little sounds like a hungry kitten.

“Please, please, God, yes, please….”

“Oh, listen to you! Fuckin’ music…” Lestrade increased the pressure, teased him, then began to play with the blunt back of the crab-claw, pressing the larger side deeper into Mycroft, jigging it, twisting it, moving the shiver of the motor’s motion around inside his captive. “Like that, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, please…” Mycroft’s cock ached with need—he knew he was dripping pre-cum, his balls pulled high, but release nowhere in sight.

“God, what a pretty sight…Let’s see what you’re willing to do, sweetie.” Mycroft heard the rough growl of a heavy metal zipper, as Lestrade opened up his fly. A few seconds later and he came into view, creeping toward Mycroft’s head, the waistband of his jeans tight under the curve of his own bum, ducking under his own heavy balls. Mycroft noted he went commando, only one layer to deal with, and wondered if his lover had dressed in hopes of a good wank somewhere private, as bored and annoyed and horny as he’d been in his own escape to the guest suite.

He was nicely hung, and promisingly thick. Uncircumcised. Clean, with an appealing scent of soap and sweat and warm, damp cotton denim. He gripped the headboard and pulled himself up, kneeling by Mycroft’s face. He grabbed the back of Mycroft’s head, forcing it closer to his crotch, and pressed his bobbing cock-head against Mycroft’s lips.

“Think you can earn your orgasm, sweetie?”

Mycroft hesitated, weighing the idea of this thick, meaty thing up his bum—or the equally tempting and erotic idea of being put to use, humbled while the vibrator continued to do good work. He gasped—then, shyness both real and performed, he nuzzled the foreskin of his owner, mouthing the chamois-soft skin, tonging it back, finding the slick satin inner skin as sleek as the inside of his own cheek. Lestrade gave a gratifying moan, and pushed forward, trying to gain entrance.

Mycroft, suddenly taken with his own power—power he held even naked and bound and embarrassed—refused, instead nuzzling along Lestrade’s chubby length. He was no more than average in length—but his penis was satisfying...solid and stout. There was plenty of room for exploration, and Mycroft enjoyed taking back a bit of control…turning the tables.

“Like that, don’t you,’ he whispered, chuckling at the echo of Lestrade’s own teasing.

Lestrade grunted and whined, but his fingers tightened in the short hair at the back of Mycroft’s head, struggling for a firm grip, barely able to cling on and pulling sharply at Mycroft’s sensitive scalp as he did. “Use that mouth on me, booty-boy. I want to feel that tongue, not hear it.” He pushed again, rooting for entry. Mycroft nipped, sharply, just enough tooth to make Lestrade squeal and pull back. A solid hand smacked Mycroft’s bum. “Cut that out, or I’ll spank you for real.”

The thought sent sparklers of excitement through Mycroft’s mind without usurping his other goals. “Another day, you damned pirate,” he growled back, happily. “You want a decent blow-job, shut up and let a genius work. Some things you don’t rush.” He eased back in and browsed over silken skin, nuzzled in the coarse pelt around Lestrade’s cock, sucked one ball and then the other into his mouth for tender suckling. He rubbed his face over Lestrade’s cock, praised him in a low murmur for such a strong, upstanding member, kissed the tip. He ringed the top with firm, solid lips, holding tight as he pushed down, rolling the foreskin back, revealing the tender surface bellow. He tickled the slit with the gentle tip of his tongue, and grew hard listening to the panting whine above him as Lestrade surrendered to his lover, captor captured. Inside Mycroft laughed, and thought silently, “Gagging for it. He’s gagging for it…”

Turn-about, of the sweetest kind. His own cock was rock-hard, bouncing beneath his belly, his balls pulled tight with need, his ass alive with the shudder and shake of the vibrator, his entire being flooded with the unexpected thrill of his fantasy fulfilled, and by a man he’d long thought outside his scope—beyond his hope. He played and tormented his lover, making him respond to his victim’s will, his booty’s power.

Mycroft wanted it to go on—but felt no real regret when, dripping and near orgasm, Lestrade pulled out, puffing and panting, his hands shaking as he touched Mycroft’s face, cradled his own cock.

“Fuck. You’re a goddamn wonder, you. Mycroft Holmes, BJ genius. Who knew?” He was laughing and awed and hungry with it, but still he pulled back. “For that you get a special treat, sweetie.” He inched back down Mycroft’s body, and Mycroft crooned in excited expectation, unsurprised when his lover popped the vibrator out with an intentionally sudden, fierce move.

There was the sudden chill of lube again—then even more sudden, the thrust, intentionally commanding, intentionally a bit rough. Lestrade’s fingers held tight to Mycroft’s hips, controlling him, pulling him back along his shaft. Then he reached around and took Mycroft’s cock in hand, and in seconds it was all white light and hunger and building need, with Mycroft moaning beneath and Lestrade growling his desire above, and both swearing as the climax approached like an express train without brakes.

“Coming-coming-coming-coming-coming---Ahhhh!” Lestrade was pounding against Mycroft’s bum, as though he could drive on through to China. He was thick, and hard, and the skin around Mycroft’s arsehole felt stretched and his body felt full and the hand around his cock was skilled and clever, and then he was coming-coming-coming-coming, too, jetting out over the cotton sheets.

And then they were done. Mycroft dropped, rolling sideways to the mattress, feeling Lestrade’s cock slip out of him. Lestrade followed, spooning close, arms wrapping around Mycroft.

They lay together panting, winded by their efforts.

“Fucking God, that was good,” Lestrade murmured.

Mycroft was silent, wriggling his hands out of the loop of the cord, giving a twist of his ankles to free his feet. He spun in place, facing his partner, weaving their thighs together, hugging him close. He kissed the damp forehead of his lover. “That was brilliant. You were so good. Amazing.” He chuckled, soft and breathy. “If I’d had any idea you were so good, so--trustworthy—I might have risked this long ago.”

Lestrade ducked his head—suddenly the shy one, the vulnerable one. “I did good?” He sounded unsure. “I gotta admit, I wasn’t sure what to do when I found you.”

“I know. A shock for both of us, I’m sure.” Mycroft smiled to himself. “An unexpected revelation. But I’m quite pleased with the outcome. You were brilliant.”

Lestrade buried his face in Mycroft’s chest. “Really?” His voice was hesitant, muffled aganst his lover’s collarbone.

“I’m sure.” Mycroft said it fondly. “Sure enough I can’t help hope we’ll attempt similar exploration in future.”

Then Lestrade chuckled, freed from insecurity. “Is that Holmesian for ‘let’s make a regular gig of this?’”

Mycroft laughed in turn, cradling his unexpected treasure in his arms. What a conquest!  What bounty! “Yes. Precisely. This—and maybe meals together, movies on the sofa, books shared back and forth, concerts attended…”

“Footie-games?”

Dry and mordant, Mycroft drawled, “Footie in bed, or at a bloody stadium?”

“Both.”

They chuckled together at their own banter, the ease and timing of their own shared wit.

“Both.” Mycroft held his charming captive tight. “The main idea, though, is I’m keeping you. You’re helpless to escape me, now I know what I was missing.”

Lestrade shivered in his arms, but it wasn’t fear. “I’ll hold you to that, slut. You know you want it.”

“Oh, I do,” Mycroft purred, feeling post-coital drowsiness creep into his body. “I certainly do.”

And then they curled together, and drowsed, safe and alone—until Sherlock hunted them down, pounding at the bedroom door, earning their bitter curses and forcing them to dress so they could swear at him all the better.

 


End file.
